


Winter River ~ Summer Dream

by The_Thieving_Magpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10168343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Thieving_Magpie/pseuds/The_Thieving_Magpie
Summary: Jim has been ambushed by one of his own men and is dying.The one man he never dreamed would be there for him is …and it changes them both.





	

“So…..fucking cold …”

Jim’s teeth chatter, as Sherlock continues to work on the gunshot wound in his torso, continues to not speak, not answer. Till now, and of course it’s something sarcastic.

“It’s called winter. Plus which, we are on a barge on a frigid river … might have something to do with it.” His face is set in stone and steel, and his heart is pounding in despair, hands soaked in blood. Jim’s blood, and it warms him, giving him obscene comfort from the cold.

“Even now, you still got it, Sherly …” Jim laughs weakly and it degenerates into a cough, shocking even him with the sudden influx of agony from his ruptured liver. “Oh …God ….. ow ….”

“Stop it!! Damn it Moriarty! I’m trying to save your life! Can you for once not make things hell on earth?!”

Jim considers this, watching Sherlock very closely, though his vision is not so good at this moment in time. Blurry, fading. But he sees enough.

“There is no Hell. You’re crying. Why.”

“…..Please … please shut up?”

The water in his eyes is sweat, or perhaps condensation. Whatever. He works almost hysterically, but there really was no hope to begin with. They are many miles from help, alone, and Jim’s blood soaks the barge, mixing with the clear, clean water. “I – can’t – get it — to – to stop –”

“No, you can’t.” Jim agrees coldly. But he reaches for Sherlock. “Stop. Let it be. Sit with me. Just - talk with me -”

“Jim shut up, please I have to –”

“Stop! Listen! There’s no time and I need to …”

Sherlock gasps in oncoming shock and stress, and sits down, cradling Jim against him, so he doesn’t have to die against the harsh, rotten wood of the barge. So he can die in someone’s arms and not like a bilge rat thrashing in the muck, expiring alone and loathed. Missed by none.

Missed by …

Oh god, how he will be missed.

“I’m not sorry. For anything. Not a bit of it. But I have a regret…”

“Say anything, everything ……Jim. I’m right here… “

“I regret … leaving you behind … and there’s nothing I can do about it .. I’m going to leave this ugly world and you will live on, because even if you miss me and our game and everything else unsaid and untouched between us .. you’d feel too guilty to do anything else … and I know that .. and yet .. I’ll see you again some day …”

Sherlock swallows on the razor blade in his throat.

“I regret doing so little to save you. All this time. I failed you. You are worth saving, James Moriarty. You always were, but I was too …afraid of you. I admit it. I was, and I’m even more afraid of you now ..”

Jim smiles a little, looking distant and very tired.

“I’m ..pretty harmless right now ..”

“………………no … I will live with this … for the rest of my life here. There’s …no cure for what you’ve done to me. What you make me ..”

“Feel ..”

“Feel.”

But the moment is on him, and Jim tenses, his back arching. “Oh God! “ It’s so much worse than he realized it could ever be, the pain, it’s terrifying. “Sherlock! Please! …please … end it … oh … oh fuck … oh god …”

“I …”

“Make it up to me! Don’t fail me now! …make this end … don’t make me beg …”

Sherlock moves him closer and at the same time reaches for the pistol in his coat, deftly placing it against Jim’s thin chest, where the heartbeat is racing in suffering and anguish. “…………………..Goodbye, Jim …. I’m ….so sorry ..”

The gunshot cracks the air like madness, and Sherlock can’t even hear his own scream to the gray and heartless sky.

 

****************************

 

Summer …a storm, on the horizon.

Many years later.

Sherlock is at the end of his days, and John has brought him here, to this river, and though he doesn’t understand it completely, the fact that it means so much to him is enough. No questions.

The great Consulting Detective smiles, his aged but still handsome face at 89 yet wise and noble, as his sharp blue eyes look over the winding river’s gentle babbling and meandering movements.

…………………………….you’re close, Sexy ….

“Oh I am, I am.”

Gonna come to your Irish boy at last hmm ? I told you Hell was a lie … wait till you see this place .. kinda boring but we’ll change that …

“……………..Jim.”

John hears the name, and he understands a little more. He turns away a bit, but a sad smile creeps over his features now.

Of course… Moriarty.

It all made sense …

No judgements ..not now.

Sherlock’s eyes close, and he crosses the greatest river of them all, into a land of molten sunshine and emerald vales.

One voice.

He’d know that lilting and beautiful voice anywhere.

 

“What took you so long?”


End file.
